Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  Meanwhile, more men were wading and splashing across the water. While the Earl and his fighters kept the French busy, the newcomers reinforced the bridgehead and began to push the French back.

  There were over three thousand French fighters there to greet the English. Berenger could see them clearly from his vantage point on top of the archers’ cart, but as a French fighter fell, there were no reserves. In comparison, the hundred English were soon two hundred, then three, and more and more were floundering through the water all the time. It was a fierce, bitter fight – but within an hour of the first men reaching the French bank, it was over. The last of the French were racing away towards Abbeville, while more English crossed and widened their bridgehead, and at last the wagons and carts could be sent to join them.

  Berenger watched with frank astonishment. ‘How did we do that?’ he wondered.

  ‘There’s only one explanation,’ Jack said. He snorted. ‘We were a bloody sight more desperate than them.’

  And so they were. Later, as Berenger stood on the north bank of the Somme and stared about him, he saw the last of the English forces cross the river, and then, a scant mile away to the south, he spotted a pennant. Beckoning Clip to him, he demanded, ‘What is it? What can you see?’

  ‘The French,’ Clip droned. ‘We’re all going to get slaughtered now. It’s the whole fucking French army, Frip.’

  Berenger frowned at him. ‘Are you serious? You’re scared of them?’

  Clip gawped at him. ‘Aren’t you?’

  Berenger looked down at the river. It was already much deeper. ‘The tide’s in, Clip. No one’s going to cross that today! We’ve been saved.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Berenger nodded, and then he began to laugh.

  ‘You know what, Clip?’ he chuckled. ‘I reckon we really are going to win. I think we really do have God on our side.’

  ‘God? Nah, it was Wisp!’

  25 August

  It was the day after their crossing, and Berenger stood with the rest of the vintaine, watching the French army assemble on the opposite bank.

  ‘We’ve been on duty all night, Frip. Can’t they find someone else to take over?’ Clip whined. ‘I need my sleep, me.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Geoff said. Berenger hadn’t expected him to support Clip, and looked at him with curiosity. ‘Frip, they ought to have someone replace us by now. Look, most of the army’s resting back there, isn’t it? But we still get the bum jobs.’

  They had cause for complaint. Since crossing, the vintaine had been told to remain on guard. But not alone. All along the bank, English lines stood waiting for the French to cross. Everyone was convinced that they would. Only the turn of the tide had prevented their immediate passage.

  ‘How are you, Fripper?’ Sir John had joined him.

  Berenger nodded towards the farther bank. ‘While they are over there, I’m happy.’

  ‘We made it.’

  ‘They can still cross the river, just as we did.’

  ‘No. They fear attacking us on this kind of ground. We can hurry north and they won’t hinder us.’ He looked at Berenger. ‘You reminded me of our journey here many years ago. I think you were right. The fields outside Crécy will serve us admirably well.’

  ‘Provided they don’t force their way over.’

  ‘As you say. Do you not think it is a miracle?’

  The priests had declared their escape to be a miracle, like that of the Jews’ passage through the Red Sea when God held back the waters, only releasing the torrent when the Egyptians pursued them.

  ‘Miracle?’ Berenger chuckled. ‘I see it more as making masterly use of that fisherman Hugh, and taking the opportunity that presented itself. If the advance guard had failed to push the French from the bank, the army would already be destroyed. All our skills at fighting would not have availed us against the French.’

  ‘That is why the King has split our army.’

  The main bulk was here to protect the crossing, but a large force under Hugh Despenser had been sent to the coast to seize all the provisions he could find. Bread, cattle, pigs – everything edible – must be gathered for the army. This while Berenger and the others were left behind, feet sinking into the mud and sand, bows unstrung, strings held next to the skin to keep them dry against the threatened drizzle from the dark skies.

  ‘Keep a close eye on the enemy, Frip,’ Sir John advised as he left. ‘We don’t want any surprises.’

  Ed had returned to them, ready to bring them the arrows they would need if the French began to cross.

  Now he asked. ‘Do you think they’ll come, Frip?’

  The youth had grown in the last weeks. He was leaner, more self-assured than the puny lad whom Berenger had found bleeding in the Portsmouth gutter. His eyes were more intent, as though they could see things that ordinary men could not. But the edge of lunacy that had characterised his appearance and manner in those early weeks was gone. In its place was a steadiness and reserve. Perhaps they would make something of the boy after all.

  The vintener gave him an honest reply. ‘They will have to try. If they don’t attempt the river, they will have to travel miles eastwards, to cross by a bridge. And a bridge is a narrow passage at the best of times. We were able to cross with speed. On a bridge, they’ll manage one cart or wagon abreast: we travelled two or three wagons abreast.’

  ‘So they only wait for the tide?’

  ‘I expect so. Then life will suddenly get very exciting.’

  He didn’t mention his greater fear: that French cavalry had already crossed the river by the bridge. That idea gnawed at him. The notion that at any moment a strong party of French cavalry might appear over the nearer horizon and charge into their flank, was one that brought him out in a cold sweat. If it were to happen before Despenser returned with his men, the English would be torn apart.

  But for now, to his relief, there was no sign that the French had their main force on this side of the river.

  ‘Berenger!’

  His attention snapped to Jack, who stood warily staring over the waters. His hand was inside his chemise, and that was enough to put Berenger on the alert. Jack was gripping his bow-string, ready to assemble his bow again.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Those men over at the left: horsemen. They’re riding back east.’

  Berenger’s eyes were not so farseeing as Jack’s, but he could make out a strong party of men-at-arms riding away from the main French forces. ‘I see them.’

  ‘Is that what they are doing?’ the Donkey asked. There was a slight quiver in his voice, as though he was assailed by sudden fear. ‘They’re riding round to the bridge to attack us?’

  Berenger made a quick calculation. The tide was coming in again now, so soon the waters would be impassable once more. It wouldn’t take the french forces that long to ride to the first bridge, cross it and return to the English camp, but no doubt they were being ordered to find additional men to bring with them. That would take about twelve hours clear, he estimated.

  ‘Frip? There are more going. Look, over there!’ Jack was pointing again, and now a smile was breaking out over his face.

  Berenger stared, and as he did so, a sense of relief washed through his very soul.

  ‘They’re going!’ he said happily. ‘They’re bloody going!’

  26 August

  The blare of trumpets woke Berenger with a start, and he muttered to himself as he threw off his blanket and stood stamping his feet in the cold air. There had been a time when he would always have woken before the dawn and before even the earliest heralds could draw breath to blow their horns. Not so now. Too many weeks of marching, fighting for survival, nights without sleep and the dread of being caught by the French had taken the edge off his early rising.

  They had waited last afternoon until the French were all gone, and then only a small contingent was left to watch over the ford while the army packed and prepared. The King had t
hem all moving as the tide rose and made a passage across impossible, and they had reached this wood late in the afternoon. With plentiful supplies of firewood and space for all to lie down, the men had spent their first comfortable night for some time. The wagons were lashed together to prevent a surprise attack from their enemy, with the horses and ponies herded inside, and then the men settled, seeing to their weapons and armour, and many taking Mass from the priests.

  Berenger slapped his arms about his torso in an attempt to urge some blood into his fingers, and blew on them as he eyed his vintaine. Their losses had brought the originally undermanned unit to below half its strength. Although he now had Roger’s men with his own, the addition of Tyler was not reassuring. The man was untrustworthy.

  As he kicked Clip, Berenger brought back to mind all those who had died. The smiling faces, the cheerful souls, the grim ones, the thoughtful, the angry. The man who screamed in rage when he ran to battle, the men who stood back, watching for a suitable target, those who grabbed the nearest woman, those who preferred to visit the church and bow their heads while outside their English comrades ran amok. So many had died in the last years of fighting. Too many to recall all their names, he realised to his shame. No, it was only that he was tired. Too tired.

  He waited until the chuntering Clip had taken sticks and tinder and set about making a fire. Berenger had a little flour left, and he had bought some oats from a Welshman. The different teams were more than happy to swap or sell their provisions now that Despenser had returned with herds of cattle and swine and carts filled with other stores from le Crotoy, which he had sacked.

  There was a lot of complaining as usual, but nothing serious. Compared with the concerns he had heard while they were stuck on the other bank of the river a few days ago, even Clip’s nasally-voiced grumbles were a pleasure to hear. All was well in their world.

  Berenger passed Jack the oats and flour and watched him mix and shape the rough patties into balls. There was a thick grey smoke rising from the fire now, and Clip blew on the embers until his face was purple, while the others supplied a running commentary.

  ‘I could have been fed and watered by now, if I was at home. Up on the hills, if you don’t get yoursel’ out of your bed and ready, the foxes will have had all the lambs.’

  ‘Don’t blow it like that, man! You’ll blow it out! Breathe on it gently.’

  ‘Clip, if you stick your arse in the air like that, Geoff will be after you. He couldn’t resist a backside like that.’

  ‘You’d know, Grandarse!’

  ‘Blow this side now, you lurdan! No! Round here!’

  ‘You want to blow on it yourself, Jack – feel free,’ Clip snapped, sitting up, his face black with soot and ash from a gust of wind. ‘I’ll put my feet up while you get the fire going.’

  ‘Oh, aye. You go and rest, you lazy deofol,’ Jack said without rancour. ‘We’ll get the fire going, and then, since I’ve made your cake, I’ll eat that too. Yes, you laze around while we do all the work – as usual.’

  ‘Work? You idle sods don’t know the meaning of the word!’

  ‘What does it matter? “Ye’ll all be dead soon. They’ll slaughter you.”’ There was a general guffaw.

  Berenger sighed happily. While his men were taking the rise out of each other, he was content.

  When the fire was burning well, Jack produced a griddle-iron from the cart and hung it from a tripod of sticks. Each man set his little patties on the hot surface and waited eagerly for them to cook.

  Berenger took his and broke it open to release the steam before eating. It was good to feel the food in his belly, warming and filling at the same time. He took his sword and began to whet it with his stone, preparing for whatever the day should bring. He had a strong premonition that there would be a need for a good, sharp weapon soon.

  The command to decamp came as the men were finishing their oaten cakes and gulping down beer liberated from a little farm Clip had found. Called to their feet, they moved in the slouching manner Berenger recognised so well. It was always the way of the English to pretend to a careless disobedience that they would never exhibit on the battlefield. Or not often, he amended.

  For all their posturing, the men were quickly packed. While many esquires and heralds were still hurrying from tent to sumpter horse, Berenger’s men were ready and waiting.

  ‘Takes a lot longer for nobles to get their shit together, don’t it?’ Clip sniped. ‘Why don’t they wake those sods up first, and leave us to get our rest?’

  ‘You need more beauty sleep, that’s for certain,’ Berenger grunted.

  ‘At least my face isn’t past improvement,’ Clip countered. ‘Not that it matters. We’ll all be killed soon. All of us slaughtered.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up!’ came the general cry.

  The delay had set some of the other men to fretting. ‘When will we be moving?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘The French aren’t here yet,’ Jack told him.

  ‘No, but they could be at any time. They’re only a few miles away. I don’t know – how far is it to Abbeville?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Should have asked that Yorkshire git while we had him. He’d have known.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Berenger agreed.

  ‘Why are you bothered? If they get here, we’ll just use archers to keep them back while the army makes good its escape.’ It was Tyler speaking. He was standing behind the remains of Roger’s men, a little apart. Berenger wondered whether that was his choice, or because he had been rejected by his companions.

  ‘Do you think the King wants to run from them?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘Of course he does,’ Jack said. ‘He’s no fool. He wants to stay a couple of steps ahead of them, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Then why are we still here? We could have set off earlier yesterday. What was the point of staying here all night, and having such a long sleep, Jack?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t pretend to understand him and his plans. What are you getting so worked up about?’

  ‘I like to know what someone’s planned for me,’ Oliver said.

  Berenger shook his head. ‘He’s planning on giving us our battle, you lurdans! He kept us here to make sure we were rested, and now he’ll take us to the place he reckons gives him the best chance of defeating the French army.’

  ‘That won’t be easy. They look like they have double the men we have,’ Jack said

  ‘Or more, yes,’ Clip said.

  ‘I thought nearer three times our force,’ Berenger considered.

  ‘Really? Christ’s bones, I didn’t realise there were that many.’

  ‘Yes, Jack. So today you’d best keep your string dry and your arrows near to hand. And pray that we don’t see the French before our King is ready to receive them. Because if they were to get here too soon and catch us in the open, we would be sitting targets.’

  Clip nodded contentedly. ‘Aye. We’ll all be killed. There’ll be a great slaughter.’

  Berenger sniffed the air. There was a comforting odour of woodsmoke and toasting bread all about. It added to his sense of impending battle. He felt his face crack into a smile again. The waiting would be over, at last.

  Oliver interrupted his thoughts. ‘But you don’t think that’s going to happen?’

  ‘Our King has brought us this far safe enough. I think he has something in his mind already,’ Berenger said. Just as he spoke, there was a squeak and a rattle from the wagons ahead. A bellow, a blast on a horn, and the army began to trundle onward. ‘Come, Jack. We’ve both been in enough wars to know how to fight. With luck, we’ll soon have a chance to fight one last battle and stop this war with a good profit!’

  Archibald rolled about on his wagon half-asleep, his head lolling with every jerk of the wheels over the uneven ground. His oxen team were well rested, but he wasn’t. At one jolt, he almost fell from his perch, and was only saved by Ed and Béatrice, who each grabbed his jerkin and pulled him back.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he mumb
led.

  Last night, in his mind, he had gone over all the miles of the journey to reach this place. He recalled the journey by sea, the many rivers and streams, the hurried flight from Paris, the troublesome crossing of the Somme, and now a thin mizzle began to spit at his face, reminding him of the Somme. In the middle of the night he had given up all attempts at sleep and instead made his way to the wagon park, where he sought out his barrels and weapons. To his relief all seemed well, but he was not content to leave them. Instead he wrapped himself in a blanket and lay down beneath his wagon, running through his mind the many things he must do in the morning.

  And now it was morning, and he was behind with all his tasks. Still, he had food in his belly, for Béatrice was a helpful little filly about the camp. She was behind him now, sitting and staring out ahead. Without glancing at her, he knew what her expression would be. She would be glaring at the world, loathing France and all Frenchmen.

  They had passed by the last of the trees, and now they clattered and rumbled past marching men. An uncountable number, he thought, stretching and towards the field. Ahead lay a road, which they must cross, and he could see a village on the left and a second on the right. Before them, the land rose slightly into a natural ridge, with a windmill on the right. The men were steadily trudging towards the left of the windmill, and he took his wagon lumbering and rumbling over to the right of it. Suddenly, a man bellowed, running up to him and pointing back the way he had come. When he was nearer, Archibald guessed he was a sergeant.

  ‘Get this lump of shite away, you prick! This is where the men will be standing. Put the wagon back with the others!’

  ‘Go and bully a loon who’ll be scared by your bluster,’ Archibald said calmly. ‘This wagon’s full of the King’s favourites.’

  ‘Favourites?’ The sergeant strode to the wagon and lifted an edge of the waxed cloth protecting the contents. ‘A metal pot? Don’t play the fool with—’